


grace

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Magic, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Breeding, Cock Worship, Creampie, God Will Graham, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inanimate Object Porn, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Hannibal Lecter, Sex Magic, Size Difference, Size Kink, Statue Will Graham, Statues, Top Will Graham, belly bulge, giant cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22532731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: There is a legend, passed down through the generations, that he or she who can please the god will see him made flesh, and he will come down from his mountain and bless the nation with his presence. He will plant a child in every bearer and see everyone rewarded with riches and unending food. It will be paradise on Earth.But a King needs a Queen. Hannibal will be that Queen; he knows it is his destiny, has felt it writ into his bones from the first moment he drew conscious breath.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 457
Collections: Wendigo & Stag





	grace

Hannibal has always known he wanted to be the Queen. Not some random arm candy for a boring and weak ruler, no, and not the mate of his tribe leader. The pinnacle of all mortals, the highest member of society. He wants to be the mate of a god.

His tribe is a relatively simple one, kept nestled at the base of a mountain where the forest teems with plentiful hunting quarry, the lakes are thick with fish and crabs, and almost every plant is edible and packed with nourishing, life-giving essence that keep the people strong and well-fed. The weather is almost always fair, they get occasional flurries of snow from the tips of the mountain and a pleasant breeze from the neighboring sea. Their allies reach far and wide, for the tribe leader is a patient, tactful, and gentle man, who would rather talk trade than war, and who has kept them safe and cared for since Hannibal was a boy.

He would make a good mate, but Hannibal has always set his sights higher, upon the lofty mountaintops where their god resides.

Their people worship the harvest, the life cycle of plants and the predictable turn of the sun and the ocean tides. Their harvests are always plentiful, their lands so rich with minerals and precious gems dug from deep in the mountain that they are wealthy and sought out for their fine clothes, their impressive livestock, and their welcoming spirits.

Hannibal is the son of one of the older lords of the tribe. Their bloodline is of one of the founders, and they are well-off and comfortable. He lives a life of gluttony and luxury and mortal sin; pleasures of feasts and music and parties. Spoiled, utterly, by a good life where he could never want for anything.

Except Hannibal is greedy. He wants to be Queen.

There is a statue and altar at the top of the mountain, nestled in a dark and wide cave. A man, sitting upon a throne, carved out of black stone. On his face is a gentle ever-present smile, and he's twice the size of a normal man. As the god of fertility and the harvest, he's beautiful and kind.

There is a legend, passed down through the generations, that he or she who can please the god will see him made flesh, and he will come down from his mountain and bless the nation with his presence. He will plant a child in every bearer and see everyone rewarded with riches and unending food. It will be paradise on Earth.

But a King needs a Queen. Hannibal will be that Queen; he knows it is his destiny, has felt it writ into his bones from the first moment he drew conscious breath.

He brings his latest offering in a basket, up the long, winding slope to his god's altar. He lays fresh fruit and wildflowers upon it, smiling up at the statue as it gazes down at him with that gentle, loving eye. When his offering is made, he stands and circles the altar, resting at the feet of his god and placing his forehead upon his knee.

"Will," he murmurs. "All-father, hear my prayers of thanksgiving."

A breeze stirs behind him, a tickle around his bare wrists. A soft gust that sounds like a sigh.

He lifts his head, and rises, trailing his fingers gently over the back of his god's hand. Whoever carved this beautiful piece left out no detail; the veins in his hand, the jut of bone in his wrist, the fine texture of arm hair that goes up to his strong, defined bicep, and the fabric of his robe that looks as though it could be moved, though it is made of stone like the rest. His hair, wild as long spring grasses, the lines carved into his lips as though wind chapped.

The last detail, as lovingly carved as the rest of him, is the thick cock that rises from his hips around the carved-out hole in his robes. He's the god of fertility, after all, and they honor him here, too. He's large, standing proudly, as long as Hannibal's forearm and thick as his fist in the widest part.

The statue is big enough that Hannibal can kneel comfortably around it, his thighs warming the stone, which has been rubbed smooth from years of worship and loving, tender touches. Hannibal has been coming here since he was merely a boy, not yet big enough to even climb up and rest here.

He wraps both hands around the shaft and lowers his head, eyes meeting those of his god. He parts his lips and wraps them around the head of Will's cock, sucking lightly, tonguing at the deep groove of his slit. He tastes like stone, but also sea air, a little salty and cold against Hannibal's teeth.

He shivers with desire, reaching down to part his own robes and draw his cock out. Will's cock grows slick and shining with his spit, dripping down so he can spread the rest with his hand. He grinds himself against Will's shaft, his jaws parted wide enough that they crack and ache as he tries to take more in. Blood blooms and flushes his mouth, bruises his lips and the back of his throat, and he moans, choked and stuffed, stroking himself and grinding against one of the dips in Will's robes.

The statue stares at him, smiling and unreactive, but Hannibal is not deterred. He has been doing this, bringing his god pleasure, since he was old enough to understand the purpose of a cock in the circle of life. Even though the statue has never moved, never answered his prayers by becoming the living flesh of a man, he is sure that his god, in his vast kingdom, feels Hannibal's worship and is pleased by it.

Another breeze wafts into the cave, curling around the nape of his neck like a cool hand, and Hannibal stiffens, groaning as he comes over his god's shaft and robes. He pulls back, tonguing at the head again, imagining what it would feel like to have his god spill and flood his mouth. It pulls another shiver of desire from him, and he wipes his hand over his mouth, strokes his semen and his spit onto his god's smooth cock to make it shine.

The breeze comes to him again, strong enough to stir the wildflowers he placed upon the altar. Hannibal smiles, and rises to his feet on his god's lap, takes his face and kisses his unmoving stone lips, and then his forehead.

Then, he climbs down, and kisses Will's fingers. "Hear my prayer and feel my devotion," he murmurs with another smile. "I will be back tomorrow."

He returns to his tribe to find his sister waiting for him. She grins at him in greeting, hopping down from her perch on a rock to throw herself into his arms. She's a petite, dainty little thing, despite being of age now to mate and marry. He brings her to rest on his hip, smiling when she kisses his forehead and hugs his shoulders to stop herself falling.

"Gone to visit Will again?" she teases, as if Hannibal has not done this every day that she has been alive, and as though he goes anywhere else on his trips. "Did he move for you this time?"

"No," Hannibal replies, though he is not saddened by this. It would take a great amount of love to melt stone. "But I think he was made happy. The wind was stronger today."

"It's stronger because it's almost summer," Mischa replies with a roll of her bright eyes. "Hannibal, my sweet brother, I know you love him, but perhaps it would be better for you to set your sights somewhere on this plane. I know several women – or men – who would welcome you in their bed."

Hannibal laughs, good-naturedly, and sets her down. "Has our mother been lamenting to your kind ear again?"

"She never stops," Mischa complains. "She seems to think I will not marry because you will not." She grins, and turns her nose up. "As if I have ever cared about waiting for you to catch up with me."

"No one here is good enough for you," Hannibal agrees. "Maybe our god has a brother."

"Hah!" She slaps him on the chest. "You're a fool, but fools love the best of us all, so they say." She sighs, for a moment turning uncharacteristically melancholy. "I do worry for you, though, I will admit it; what if he never moves for you, and you are old and grey and die without ever having been in love?"

"I am in love," Hannibal replies with a shrug.

"Like a fool," she says, smiling.

Hannibal goes back to the altar the next day, this time with an offering of hunted deer meat and shells from the ocean, and freezes when he comes to the altar. Will's smile is still there, but -. No, he must be imagining it, except he isn't. He knows the cut and pose of this statue like his own body.

Will's hand has moved. Before, it laid flat and relaxed on the arm of his throne. Now, his hand is up, fingers curled and extended in a beckoning motion, as though welcoming Hannibal closer.

Hannibal lays his offerings out and rushes to the statue, breathless with anticipation. He takes Will's hand and leans down to kiss his open palm, which is now so new and foreign to him that he obsessively maps the lines in his palm, the creases in his fingers. The way his knuckles are not so defined now with his fingers outstretched.

He rests his cheek against the cool stone, running his fingers down the raised line of tendon in Will's exposed wrist, the smoothness where there is no arm hair. The single definition of muscle. His lungs feel heavy, his throat so tight he wants to weep with joy.

"Will," he whispers, and feels the breeze caress him in answer. He looks up, and sees that Will's face is unchanged. Just a small, subtle movement, but it's everything Hannibal could have hoped for. He climbs upon his god's lap and kisses him fiercely, holding Will's cock between his thighs and feeling where it has been left sticky from his release the day before. "All-father, hear me."

He almost expects Will to blink, for his smile to widen. For his hand to move and grip Hannibal tightly. To hear his voice. Nothing of the sort happens, but Hannibal is alight with relief, to see even so small a reaction.

He reaches and grips Will's hand, using his other to stroke his massive cock, and lowers his mouth to suck the head between his lips, as he has done every day for years. The taste of his own come floods his mouth with saliva, and he moans, grinding through his clothes, knees digging into the folds of Will's stone robes. They feel different today, too. Will's stance seems wider, somehow.

His fingers curl and his eyes water, as he grips one of Will's fingers with his entire fist, cups the back of his cock and forces himself to take more in, until his throat bruises and distends from the massive girth. He's choking on his own moans, lost to rapture, flushed and sweating despite the cold air and the cool stone.

Through it all, Will smiles at him, as gentle and loving as he always has.

Hannibal manages the wherewithal to part his robes and come over his god's cock as he has always done, rubbing it into the stone and continuing to lick the bulging head. His throat protests the abuse, his moans soft and ragged, and he flexes his fingers and laces them with Will's, feeling how his own body heat warms the stone.

He continues to lick his god's cock, cleaning him with slow, thorough sweeps of his tongue. He wishes Will would move for him again, to show his pleasure, but the wind is his only companion. He sighs, after a while, when Will is clean, and his knees protest the wider stance, his shoulders ache.

He bows his head and kisses Will's shaft, petting up it with both hands, and climbs down to his god's feet. Yes, they definitely are wider. He smiles.

"Serving you is the greatest pleasure I've ever known," he confesses, soft as a prayer. "I would do it forever."

A gust of wind blows a cloud across the sun, and in the split second of shadow, Hannibal imagines, prays, thinks, that he sees Will blink at him.

"Oh, Hannibal," Mischa says, with sad eyes and a small shake of her head. "What are you doing? You are not a woman. Our god is a man."

Hannibal hums. In truth, he is not sure he is a man, either. The concept of being a man or a woman has always been somewhat foreign to him; in his tribe, there are people who bear young, and people who do not. He has known men who have given birth and seen woman with cocks. It doesn't seem important when one's mate is a god. He would be whatever role Will wanted of him – every gender, or none of them.

But her words strike something in him; of course. Will is a fertility god. He cannot plant anything in Hannibal's mouth, for Hannibal's tongue and lungs have already been seeded with devotion and words of love. No, to please his god, he needs to welcome Will deeper. Into his belly, where Will might see fit to make him a mother. Or, once alive, take him and bear fruit given life by Hannibal's seed.

"You're right," he murmurs, and her head tilts curiously. She doesn't ask, merely rolls her eyes and calls him a fool yet again.

The next day, he brings an offering of wildflowers and berries harvested from bushes that grow along the borders of the forest. He also brings with him a jar of oil.

Will's statue has changed again, and Hannibal's throat grows tight with adoration when he sees that his god's smile is wider, his eyelids lowered in pleasure. His canines are sharp, and Hannibal climbs up into his lap, reaching out to touch them. His thumb brushes the point of one of his teeth, and he shivers when he cuts himself upon it, a bead of red blood blooming on his skin.

He paints Will's lower lip with it, and leans up to kiss it away.

Will's hands have moved again. Now, they are positioned in his lap, upturned, like handholds. Like he might hold a mate while he made love to them. Hannibal's heart flutters with joy, seeing that his mindset and that of his god are so perfectly attuned to each other.

He presses his lips together, and sheds his clothes, letting his robes fall to the floor at his god's feet and baring himself completely for the first time. He turns, and rests himself against Will's chest, finding that the folds of his robes are perfect for his size, cupping his broad shoulders and his ass. He lifts his legs, and rests one in each of Will's hands, shivering as his skin warms the stone.

He takes the jar of oil, and spreads it on his fingers, tilting his gaze up to see Will smiling at him as he wraps one hand around his cock, the other sinking lower, knuckles brushing the shaft of Will's cock as he flattens two fingers against his rim and pushes them inside.

He has never done this before, never let anyone inside him. But as soon as he does, he finds himself ravenous for it. Yes, he was made for this; made to take his god into his body and warm him with his flesh. He sinks his fingers in deep, moaning softly in pleasure, eyes closing as he strokes himself and ruts his fingers deeper.

He curls them, attempting to stretch himself out, and gasps when, within him, he feels a pulse of heat as he brushes over something tender. It feels like he's stroking his cock from inside and out, pressure at the base of it making his balls draw up tight, his gut tensing in eagerness.

He works a third finger inside, groaning at the stretch, his half-lidded gaze fixed on Will's cock. It's huge, much bigger than just his fingers; he may have to work himself up to it, but he's determined to try. His thighs tense as he brushes over that sensitive spot again, his breath coming fast and quick as he strokes himself, chasing the burn in his belly that makes him want to roll his hips, to moan, to _fuck_ until he's spent.

His orgasm comes for him with teeth, a gust of wind that drives him over the edge as he arches and spills over his belly, whimpering when his muscles clench and judder around his fingers. The answering laxness lets him work a fourth finger in, and though he's twitching and sensitive, he doesn't let himself stop.

He thinks he feels Will's fingers curl.

He gasps, rubbing his messy hand over Will's cockhead, and forces himself to rise on shaking legs. He moves so that his shins are in Will's hands, the perfect height for him to kneel and brace his tender, flushed hole over Will's massive cockhead.

Gravity will help him, he knows, but still, it's a daunting task. He presses his lips together, breathes in deeply, and turns to watch Will's face. It is unmoved, still with that new, wide smile, a sheen of red on his lower lip. Hannibal takes the jar of oil and pours more onto Will's cock, and between his own thighs, and tosses the empty jar to the ground with his clothes.

He closes his eyes, and rests against Will's cockhead. It's blunt and huge and burns when he tries to force it in, making Hannibal break out in new sweat and a flush that even the wind can't cool. Will feels warmer than usual, his hands and his cock almost like human flesh.

He grunts when Will's cockhead penetrates him, slick and unyielding. It hurts, even with how stretched and relaxed Hannibal is, and he whines, bending down and wrapping his fingers around the shaft between his thighs, stroking gently to try and distract himself as he lets his thighs go lax, and sinks down another half inch.

The head goes in, a brief moment of respite as the widest part is swallowed by Hannibal's determined body. His hips ache, feel split open and cracking as they part, like he imagines child-bearers feel when bringing life into the world. This is what he was made for; this is what it takes to be Queen.

He pauses, panting, straightens and rolls his hips to try and find an easier angle, sinking down another inch. Will's cock is thick and long, much longer than this, and the widest part just below his cockhead is still to come, but Hannibal is in it now, and he is determined to please his god and prove his loyalty, his love, his devotion.

He tilts his head back, tears in his eyes from the pain, and grits his teeth, forcing himself to take another inch. The rise of Will's cockhead brushes against that sensitive place and makes him gasp, pleasure burning up his spine and choking the back of his throat. He feels it in his throat, so full and tender, and it feels good, the pressure inside him feels wonderful. How can he have never tried this before?

He shifts his weight, puts his feet in Will's wide palms, reaches back to brace himself on Will's chest, and lowers himself down. More, more still, his stomach bulging with the unyielding stone cock inside him, a subtle rise that travels up his belly, to just below his ribs. He keeps going, feeling his inner muscles and his organs shift to accommodate, and by the time he connects his hips with Will's lap, he feels his heart beating against the tip of it, and collapses with exertion, unable to lean back or bend forward, speared right through his entire body.

He rests his thighs in Will's hands, breathing hard, shaking and sodden with sweat, clenches around him, and tries to move, makes it a few inches before he collapses back down again, moaning in a mix of pain and pleasure. The pressure inside him is unavoidable and touches him everywhere.

He drops a hand to his cock, grinding helplessly against Will's cock as he whimpers, fist tight around his erection. The heat builds in his stomach, he feels his muscles clamping relentlessly around the stone inside him, weak and unresisting as he works his hips as best he can and comes over his hand and Will's lap.

As soon as his seed splashes on the stone, he hears a crack. Will's hands curl, grasping his thighs to hold him still. There are fissures in the stone, black parting to reveal pale skin, Will's hands flexing as the stone grits and scatters to the ground.

He's warm, suddenly the heat of alive flesh is on him, and inside him. He turns his head to see Will's smile fracturing apart, blinking eyes shedding heavy stone from his lids to reveal irises the color of a storm-heavy ocean. Will shakes his head, tossing rock and dust free of dark, Earth-brown hair, he lifts a hand and removes the structure of his jaw from his face. A soft beard is revealed beneath, and Will gasps, lashes fluttering, blinking to remove the dust from his eyes.

He's beautiful, even more beautiful than Hannibal could have possibly imagined. He gasps, as Will lifts him from his cock, pulls him close against his chest so that the stone can fall from his robes, his legs, and his cock, brushed away by Will's gentle hand.

He lifts his head as he turns Hannibal by the chin. Without his stone confinement, he's much closer to the size of a normal man, though Hannibal can still feel against his back that his cock is just as large as the statue made it. He shivers, feeling empty and raw, closing his eyes as Will brushes a hand through his hair.

"Hannibal," he says, in a voice as light and soft as that summer breeze. "Open your eyes."

Hannibal obeys, settling on shaking thighs as Will straightens on his throne. Will's smile is bright, lips a delicate, soft pink, his teeth still with that extra sharpness at the canines. His eyes shine as though lit from within; his grace and power glowing in his iris.

Will tilts his head, tucks his warm fingers beneath Hannibal's chin, and arches a brow. "No greeting kiss this time, my love?"

Hannibal smiles, a laugh bubbling up in his broken chest, and throws himself against Will, hands in his soft, wild, thick hair, and leans up to meet Will's lips. It feels so strange, to suddenly be in the arms of a living, breathing man – strange, but overwhelmingly good. Kissing Will is like feasting; he's filled and nourished and hungry for more.

Will hums against him, a rumble in his chest that Hannibal can feel beneath his hands. He pets through Hannibal's hair, tilts his head back with a sigh, resting against his throne. "My lovely Hannibal," he murmurs, brushing his wide, warm hands down Hannibal's back, across his stained belly, over the tops of his thighs. "I've ached for you for so long."

"Take me," Hannibal begs, reaching back to wrap his fingers around Will's cock – pulsing, thick and alive, dripping precum down the shaft. Will's eyes flash, and his upper lip twitches in a snarl, revealing those sharp teeth. He grips Hannibal and lifts him, all the strength of a god evident in every muscle, and Hannibal gasps, closing his eyes so his vision is narrowed to slits, as Will's cock pierces him deep again and he can sink back down.

Will growls against his neck, hands spreading out wide on Hannibal's back and holding him still, relishing how Hannibal's sore body parts and clenches around him. Hannibal pets over his shoulders, digging his nails into smooth, warm flesh, shivers and kisses Will's jaw, his ear, over his thundering pulse as Will rolls his hips, trying to get as deep as he can.

Will gasps, lifting his head, takes Hannibal by the nape and kisses him again, other hand cupping his ass to help him rise and fall in a steady rhythm. "Hannibal," he breathes, kissing Hannibal's nape to his parted lips. "You feel…."

Hannibal nods, kissing him again. It's easier to take Will, now; his body is open and wet and sore but it feels amazing, everything about Will's touch feels amazing. He's dreamed of this his whole life and the reality could not possibly compare.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Will growls, showing his teeth as he throws his head back, gasping to the ceiling. He grips Hannibal's hips, shoving him down, his stomach tensing and sinking in as he ruts up, nearing his orgasm. Hannibal flattens a hand to his stomach so he can feel it, toes curling as Will's cock pulses inside him, sending a reassuring ache all through his body.

"Fill me, Will," Hannibal says, quiet and ardent as any prayer he has given to his god. "I want to be your instrument in this world."

Will's eyes flash, glowing with his grace. He clenches his jaw, grits his teeth.

"Do you want to be my Queen, Hannibal?" he whispers.

Hannibal smiles, his throat tight. "It's all I've ever wanted."

Will groans, gripping Hannibal tightly, and forces him to go still. Hannibal closes his eyes, sighing with pleasure as he feels Will twitch and empty inside him, so much that he can taste it at the back of his throat, Will planted so deep inside him he knows it paints every spare inch of space in his body. Some of it leaks out, staining his thighs, and he whines in displeasure, grinding down and clenching up tight to keep it all inside.

The breeze whirls around the cave, heavy with pollen as every plant in the valley shudders and spreads its life. He hears animals bellowing, grunts of them mounting their mates in the height of heat. Hears sudden cries of pleasure from his fellow tribesmen as they find their mates and husbands and wives and take them out in the open.

He hears it, and he feels it; a deep, desperate clench in his own belly. Will doesn't go soft, but gentles his hands, coaxing Hannibal into rocking on his cock as the fire in his stomach grows thorns, digs into him all the length of his spine. Will kisses him, stroking his cock until Hannibal comes weak and near-dry over his robes, and collapses with a sated moan, panting against Will's neck.

Will keeps working him until he comes again, spilling inside Hannibal, sending another flurry of fervor through their tribe, all the plants and animals and people caught in the sweep of fertile heat. Will's come drips from his mouth and he swallows it back, thinks with an amused huff that it tastes of honey and salt.

He knows, when they return to the valley, that the people will know what has happened. Everyone knows Will's face, and he will walk amongst them, giving blessings of life and offspring to whomever asks for it.

But for now, he is greedy, and his people's cries have done nothing to calm the fire in his heart. He aches, sore and still very much mortal, but he is now a Queen, the mate of a god, and Will loves him.

"I have kept you waiting far too long," Hannibal murmurs to Will's flushed, sweaty neck. He lifts his head to see Will staring at him, that loving, gentle smile gracing his face, his lashes low over his lust-blackened eyes. He licks into Will's sweet mouth and cups his face with both hands. "I never want to leave your side."

"Never, my love, I promise," Will replies with another kiss. He pets down Hannibal's back, mapping his body as Hannibal has spent so many hours and days and years mapping Will's. It is all fresh, and new, to feel Will as a living, breathing man. There are so many new places to discover; Will's back and the space between his thighs, his neck and his shoulders, the backs of his knees, the soles of his feet. He will dedicate his entire life to worship and love for his god, knowing it is answered tenfold.

Will shivers, biting his lower lip, and lifts Hannibal from his cock. Hannibal gasps in displeasure at the flood of come that leaks from him, but Will merely rises to his feet, his cock still hard and a lovely blush-red, dripping, and pulls him to the altar.

"Lay upon it," he commands, and Hannibal obeys, spreading himself on his belly as Will takes his place between his thighs and pushes back in. He can get deeper, this way, bruising Hannibal's heart and lungs and making him cry out in pleasure. From here, they can see the village below, see the writhing bodies of man and beast as they react to their god's awakening.

Will snarls, grips Hannibal at the back of his neck, cups his hip, and fucks him hard and fast, crushing him to the altar as Hannibal writhes and moans beneath him, pleasure unavoidable and unending turning every muscle to liquid beneath Will's capable hands and massive cock. When Will comes again, it drips right out of Hannibal, and he smiles at the thought that he will always be wet and open, always be full of his god.

Will bends over him with a sigh, kisses his flushed neck, and wraps an arm around his chest, hand settling over his heart. "I will make you a mother," he promises, and Hannibal shivers with delight. "A year from today, you will bear me a son."

He can think of no greater honor. Yet; "Will it take that long?" he asks. For a year is three months longer, if Will wishes to change him on the inside and plant a seed in him now.

Will laughs, sweet and low. "We will wait until the height of summer," he replies. "When the rest of my people are swollen and the animals are heavy with their children. You must be patient, my love."

Hannibal sighs, nodding in acquiescence. Who is he, after all, to question the will of a god? He turns his head and meets Will in a tender, loving kiss, flattening one of his hands over Will's as it slides to his flat, dirty stomach.

He has waited years for this moment, for this promise. He can wait a few months more.


End file.
